


But He's My Friend

by katedev



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedev/pseuds/katedev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is at a crime scene, no John in sight. Mycroft comes to him, John has been gravely injured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But He's My Friend

While at a crime scene, Sherlock is grumbling because John had yet to make it to the scene. This case was at least a seven, no, an eight. He'd just finished sending off an irate text, ignoring the fifteen missed calls and then he turned his attention to the crime in front of him.

A woman's bodily lay crumpled against the wall of the alley. Her partially nude body was covered in black paint. He took a step closer, pulling out his glass.

The people gathered at the front of the alley way began to murmur to one another. Hoping that meant that John was there at last, willing to yell at them to be quiet if he was not, Sherlock lifted his head. Instead, his brother, of all people, was walking slowly  
toward him. He curled his lip, turning deliberately away, back to the body. 

The woman's eyes were open wide with paint covering her left, but not the bright blue pupil of the right. Her hands were clasped to her chest, perhaps in penitence. Her lips were open, paint filling her mouth.  
He knew when his brother stopped next to him. He could feel the change in the air. He moued his lips in disapproval but did not stop examining the body. 

Mycroft watched him collecting information from the body without touching her for a moment. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock moved further away, looking at the wall she was leaning on. "Can't. Working."

Mycroft's unfurled umbrella came down between him and the wall. "Sherlock, John..."

He interrupted. "Yes, John. Fetch him, will you? We have a case. He's late."

Mycroft sighed deeply. This had to be done delicately, carefully, to avoid wounding his brother more than he could heal. "I...I can't." His words echoed Sherlock's of moments ago.  
Sherlock straightened up, squaring his shoulders in an unconscious imitation of John's military manner. He turned slightly, toward his brother. He swept his gaze down him once and back to his face. His brother was concerned, there was mud spattered on his pants. The hand that held the umbrella was holding it in a white knuckled grip. His brother looked as ill at ease as he'd ever seen him. Something was wrong. Sherlock dropped his gaze down and to the left, running through the visual cues in his mind. That wasn't mud spattered on his pants, it was too dark. It was mud mixed with blood and there was a spot of drying blood on the cuff of the hand that held the umbrella. His gaze snapped back to his brother, "What's wrong, Mycroft? Where's John? What's happened?" He took the first voluntary step toward his brother in years and asked, almost plaintively, "John?"

"There was a gunman." That was all that he had a chance to say. Sherlock whirled away from him and started back toward the opening of the alley with his long legged walk, buttoning his coat as he went. He knew that Mycroft was following him. He ran it through in his head. There was a lot of blood in the mud, perhaps more before it had mixed with mud hidden in the black of Mycroft's overcoat. A gunman, shoulder shot perhaps. That led to quite a substantial blood loss, something survivable. Or gut shot, odds went down there. He would see when he saw John. He wanted to see the wound with his own two eyes. 

Lestrade tried to stop him, "Well?"

"Can't stay. I have somewhere to be." He slipped the glass into his pocket, tucked the ends of his scarf into his coat and rebuttoned it absently. 

"But the crime scene? The murder."

He said matter of factly, "Is not as important as this." 

Lestrade gaped at him, nothing was more important than crimes scenes. He pressed further, "Any idea who she is? She was found without ID or mobile."

"Don't know, don't care. I've got to go." Sherlock turned to his brother, who was now behind him. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft gestured with his umbrella. "Car's just down there." He stepped protectively between Sherlock and Lestrade. "Come, Sherlock. I'll take you." He reached out a hand, was going to put an arm around Sherlock's shoulder when he hesitated and the moment was lost.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes far away as he ran through different wounds in his head and computed the survivability of each. He started for the car, Mycroft trailing behind him. 

Donovan snorted and asked, a scowl on her face, "Just like that, leaving the crime scene? No answers for us?"

Lestrade turned toward her, "As if you listen to him, Donovan." He watched the brothers walk away from him, closer than they'd been in all the years he'd known them. "Something is very wrong. Their mother? Mrs. Hudson?" He frowned in thought. "Where's John? He never came."

 

Sherlock sat silent beside Mycroft in the back of the government car. The uniformed driver took off smoothly and continued to drive. Apparently Mycroft had told him where they were going beforehand. Which reminded him. "Where are we going? Are we going to John? Which hospital?"

Mycroft hesitated, "St. Bart's. Sherlock, listen, there are things you need to know. The situation is..."

"I know all I need to know about the situation. You told me there was a gunman, there is blood mixed with mud on your pants, probably blood without mud on your overcoat, drying blood on your cuff. John has been hurt, he's lost a lot of blood and you are taking me to him. It's serious. You'd never have come for me yourself, otherwise. Until I see him, that's all I really need to know."

"If you'd answer your damned phone once in a while I would not have had to come get you. But I would have come to you, you would have been better prepared." Mycroft stopped talking and shook his head. "I must have left you seven messages and you never called me back."

Sherlock took out his mobile. "I was working. Anyways, can't have been that many." He scrolled through the missed calls. "You, you, you, you, Mrs Hudson, you, you." He stopped at the next name. "Molly, why was Molly calling me about John?" Something very like what he imagined fear to be crept up his spine with icy fingers. Molly worked for the morgue, she wouldn't have anything to do with a live patient. Impatient now, his mind moved faster and faster, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle that he so very didn't want to solve. This uncertainty was wearing at him. He lifted a hand to his scarf, surprised when the hand shook. He looked at it as if he'd never seen the hand before. 

Mycroft watched his brother run through the puzzle pieces in his head, waiting for the inevitable next question. One that he did not want to answer. The shaking hand was very telling. And worrisome.

Sherlock turned his head very slowly toward his brother, his eyes very large in his suddenly white face. He asked hoarsely, "Is John dead?" Without waiting for an answer he turned his head away from Mycroft to look out the window to ascertain where they were, how close they were to the hospital. Without turning his head back, he asked, "Is that why Molly was ringing me? Is John dead?"

"No, listen, Sherlock, they were taking him into surgery when I left to get you. I am not sure when Molly found out but she was quite insistent in calling you."

Absently, he said, "Normally she texts me."

"I do not like texting, you know that. This kind of information can only be given by voice. But to do that, you must answer your damned phone."

Calmed a little by his brother's answer that John was in surgery and not dead, Sherlock answered, "Working." He settled back a little into the seat, bringing one finger to his lip as he thought. Why was John somewhere where he'd encounter a gunman? What had he been doing? Alone? He muttered, "I should've been with him." Something occurred to him then and he turned his head to look at Mycroft. Mycroft had been there. Why had Mycroft been there? "Why were you there?" Mycroft had the sense to look abashed, otherwise Sherlock would've been very cross with him. "Or, was John with you?"

"We were having a discussion, along the river front, about fifty yards from my car and driver. A man rushed us, brandishing a gun. He wanted our wallets." Mycroft's eyes unfocused as he went back there in his mind. The thin junkie had been shaking, sick, but had held the gun in a tight grip. John had pushed Mycroft aside, stepping in front of him when the junkie had been spooked by something, the driver maybe and rushed them. John moved forward then, more fully in front of Mycroft, his hands up in a pugilist style, when the gun had gone off at nearly a point blank range. He said, wonderingly, "He stepped in front of me."

Sherlock gave a little laugh. Of course, of course John would do that. Honestly, the man had no sense of self preservation. And it had gotten him hurt, badly. But on to the first part of it, "What were you discussing?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Me, of course. Did he have the good sense to tell you he would spy for you?"

Mycroft simply closed his eyes and shook his head. His phone signaled and Sherlock's gaze whipped to the phone that he was holding. Mycroft lifted the phone to read the message.  
At that moment, Sherlock's phone indicated an incoming text and he looked down at the phone as if it were a snake. Should he look? Dare he look? Indecision warred in him. He was never indecisive. He looked instead at his brother's reaction to his text. Mycroft was looking at his phone, his face very carefully blank. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't sure if that was good news or bad news. He looked down at his own phone. It was Lestrade with a message about something or other underneath the body when they'd moved her. 

As if he cared. Impatiently, he cleared the message and looked back at his brother.

The car was slowing as they neared the drop off in the front of the hospital. "We are here." The car stopped. "Listen, Sherlock. John's in a bad way. They nearly lost him during surgery, twice, but they have managed to stop the bleeding and are finishing the operation. He is to be moved to recovery and to intensive care after that. You will not be able to see him for hours. Shall I take you back home? To Mrs. Hudson, she will be anxious for news."

Sherlock already had the door open and was halfway out of the car. His knees went weak, a little, at the news that John was still alive. He leaned back in to look at his brother, "No. I've come to see John and I will see him. I'll ring Mrs. Hudson once I've seen him."

Mycroft grasped his left arm, stopping him. "Are you not listening to me? It is very bad, you won't be able to get in to see him." This could be so, so bad for Sherlock. He admired the way that his brother was keeping it together. Maybe it was only a puzzle for him to work on. 

"What happened to the gunman?"

"What?" 

"The gunman, what happened to the gunman?" He groaned. "Don't tell me you let him get away? Mycroft!" This last was said with abhorrence as Sherlock began to walk into the hospital. He reviewed the layout in his head and decided to start at the operating theatre. Maybe they would let him observe the operation's closing. He'd never seen that. But could he watch them work on John? Yes, of course he could. His heart beat just a little faster at the possibility of watching John being sewn up. He was fine, he told himself. All was calm. He. No, they would get through this. He reached for the hospital door with slightly unsteady hands. It was a good thing he was known at this hospital so well. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and started for the operating theatres.

 

Sherlock slumped in his chair in John's room in disgust. He'd been barred from the operating theatre, and the recovery room. No one would let him in to see John. He only wanted to see him but was told that he'd have to wait until John got to his room, as they were still working on him. Still working on him, as if they couldn't begin to help him, as if they couldn't. He got up from the chair in a rush. He didn't want to think about that. John would be up in his room shortly. It was just a matter of time now. 

 

He paced the small room, skirting around the bed. Bored, he opened the small cupboard and there was a belongings bag tucked neatly away. He picked up the bag, John's boots were underneath, the laces splashed with blood. His forehead wrinkled as he stared down at the boots. But maybe it wasn't all John's blood, that was possible. He couldn't tell without access to a lab or more of John's blood and he wasn't about to ask Mycroft to come back so he could get a sample. The plastic bag crinkled in his hands as he gripped it tighter. 

Carrying the green bag to the window sill, he carefully opened it. The clothes were in tatters, obviously cut off John in emergency. No one had bothered to fold them, just shoved them in the bag in a hurry. Sherlock emptied the bag in the windowsill and began to fold the clothes. John was more fastidious than that and he would want his clothes taken care of. He put the trousers on the bottom. Odd, they must've let him keep his socks and underwear. The jacket was next with almost no blood on it. Which made him feel marginally better. Until he picked up the jumper to inspect it. 

He held up the oatmeal wool jumper by the shoulders and stared, just stared at the blood that had crusted the body of the jumper. The sleeves were cut up the length and so was the front. But the front had a small hole almost dead center. He laid the jumper over his left arm and put a finger to the hole. The hole through which a bullet had torn into John, center mass. One of the worst places to get shot and survive. Sherlock felt his heart rate start to increase and his breathing became erratic.  
Blinking rapidly, he swiftly folded the jumper and put it in the bag. But the image of the hole kept haunting him. He turned his mind to it like a puzzle. Puzzles always calmed him. The hole was one and a half centimeters in diameter and there was black soot stippling around the rough edges. Definitely near point blank range with a .45 bullet. That was quite a caliber for a junkie, one wondered where he got it and how much damage it could do.

And he did not want to go there. He dropped back into the chair and raised a hand to his forehead. He would just wait to see John when he arrived. He would wait and see. 

From the doorway came a small voice, "Sherlock?" 

Sherlock turned his head toward the door. Molly, from downstairs, from the morgue, stood hesitantly in the doorway, unsure if she should enter. She looked scared. Of him? Of how he might react? Why was she here? He stood up again, quickly and glanced behind her to see if the gurney he was waiting for had arrived. No, wait, Molly would go wherever the bod...

Molly watched him stand up and search her face with his eyes. He glanced at the hallway next and she could see him pull his mind from that thought. She hurriedly said, "He's not dead."

Sherlock wasn't sure how many more times he was willing to let his pulse ratchet up so high and his nerves were so taut he could probably play them like his violin. He sat again very slowly. He watched her cross the room to where his chair stood by the window. 

She reached out for his hand and he moved it out of reach. "He's not dead. They'll be up soon. I thought I should come up and see if you needed anything."

"How did you know I was here?"

"You are the talk of the hospital. Banned from the operating suite, banned from recovery."

"Yes, well, they should've let me see him. I'd have gone home then." He sat back down and steepled his hands to his chin. 

"No, no you wouldn't've. Can I get you anything? Tea? Come with me to the cafeteria?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "As if I'd leave now. No. I'll just wait here."

Molly thought he looked so alone, how long had he waited in this empty patient room with his thoughts and his deducing? When she'd come to the door, he'd hurriedly placed John's jumper into the bag. She picked up the bag to put it back in the cupboard.  
When she closed the door she was aware of how intently Sherlock was looking at her, that he'd stood up again. She went with her instincts, took the two steps to him and wrapped her arms around him. She whispered to him, "I'm sorry." 

Sherlock stiffened when her arms went around him but her whisper nearly undid him. Awkwardly he put his arms around her and dropped his head to her shoulder. Just as quietly he asked, "What do you know?"

She loosened her grip and for a moment he clung to her. Stepping back she waited until his head came up and she looked him in the eyes. "He's alive but in bad shape. The bullet...Do you want to hear about the bullet?" His jaw had tensed when she'd mentioned the bullet. He shook his head soundlessly. "The important thing is that he is alive. He's a fighter."

"That's a sentiment people always raise when talking about the dying, Molly. I know this."

She smiled gently at him, "But he is a fighter. He's young and strong and..." She was interrupted by the clatter of the gurney entering the room and she knew that she'd lost his attention. 

The doctor carrying the chart stopped at the end of the bed when he spotted Molly. "Ms. Hooper, I thought we'd canceled the call for you."

Sherlock was watching them wheel the gurney in, waiting for a glimpse of John but there were too many people around it. He heard what the doctor said and he shot his anxious gaze to Molly. He knew that meant that they thought they might need Molly, that at some point during his wait John had been serious about dying. She looked sorrowfully at him. Blinking rapidly, he turned his attention to where four people who'd come in with the gurney were transferring John to the bed.  
Finally, he could see John and what he saw frightened him. He didn't react at all when they lifted him, no instinctual clutch at gravity, no quick inhalation. The person at the top had his head stabilized and was using a hand held ambulation bag to breathe for him. His arms were crossed across his chest but he hadn't done it, someone else had and now someone else uncrossed them, laying each hand at his side. His blankets had become dislodged, or removed, Sherlock couldn't remember and the one remaining and his gown had slipped off his bad shoulder. Sherlock could see the angry starburst scar. But he'd always had that. 

Quick as thought, another of the attendants removed that blanket, the one that Sherlock could now see had yet more blood on it and drew up the blanket from the bottom of the bed. Two of the attendants left, with the gurney. The remaining two, nurses he surmised, were hooking John up to the monitors on the wall with lines that led directly from John's chest. One of them removed the hand ambulation bag and hooked him up to the ventilator, fussing with the settings. The other straightened his intravenous lines and refolded the edge of the blanket. A third nurse came in and held her hand out for the chart, asking if there was anything new. 

The doctor and nurses discussed the monitors, differences in heart tracings and blood pressure and respiratory pressures. They went through the report and Sherlock made sure to listen carefully to that. 

Molly stood next to Sherlock, listening with him as well. If he stood up any straighter he would fall over. She glanced at him, mentally willing him to relax before he passed out. 

"Male, 38, shot by a large caliber pistol, point blank range, immediate resuscitation by bystanders, taken to emergency for stabilization before surgery. Exploratory laparotomy for gsw to upper abdomen. In good health otherwise. Lost 1 liter of blood on site, another liter in the operating theatre. Replaced with two liters of crystalloid and four units of whole blood. On pressers to keep his pressure up, heart rate erratic. Resuscitated x2 on operating table. Transferred to you in grave condition. No known drug allergies. Neuro checks every hour, vitals every fifteen, keep an eye on the H&H, repeat hourly until stabilized."

Once they started the litany, Sherlock had reached out and grasped Molly's hand. His cold fingers got tighter and tighter the longer the recitation was. His fingers spasmed on grave condition and he released her hand. 

"Why is he here?" 

It took Sherlock a moment to realize they were talking about him. He said simply, "He's my friend."

"Are you family?"

"He would stay with me." He finally got a look at John's face. He didn't look like himself. His skin was another shade of pale against the white hospital sheets. His eyes were closed, hair standing up with sweaty clumps. A tube was coming out of his mouth and 

Sherlock knew that was the intubation tube, the one that was helping him breathe. There was no sign of consciousness on his face, which was slack.

"Regardless, are you family? If you're not family, you can't stay."

Molly spoke up, sure that Sherlock was overwhelmed. "Yes, yes they are family."

The nurse looked at Molly, "Miss Hooper, are you family?"

"Just friends."

"You have to leave and take this... family member with you."

Sherlock interrupted, "I most certainly will not leave." He shot her a venomous glance and then went back to watching the man in the bed.

She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth. The doctor shook his head at her, she subsided, her lips in a thin line. Dismissed, she turned back to her patient. 

 

An hour later and Sherlock was alone with John, or rather, alone with the body in the bed that the machine breathed for but whose heart beat on its own. There was no John in that bed, not that he could see. The nurses had finished checking him, making sure that the medications that were keeping him alive were in good order. Ordinarily, Sherlock would have been impressed at their thoroughness but he just wanted them to leave. They finally left him alone. He hadn't moved from the corner of the room where he'd retreated once he'd been allowed to stay. He'd just watched and waited. 

There had been a struggle over the mobile phone. He'd asked for it once John was tucked in and the nurses were leaving. "Phone please."

The nurse with the attitude had looked over at him. "What? What phone?"

"I'm not an idiot, the one taped to the front of the chart. It's his phone. Phone please."

She looked down at the chart with surprise. There was a cell phone taped to the front of the chart with a note. "This should've gone with his wallet and personal affects. No, I'm afraid you can't have it."  
He had been about to argue more when the second nurse, the one with the kind eyes, had taken the note and phone off the chart with an aggrieved sigh. "For God's sake, Clara, give him the phone. It's as good a place as the safe."

He'd clutched the phone tight, "Thank you." After they left the room, he'd looked at the note taped to the phone. Found in hand and in fact there were bloody fingerprints around the casing. Had John been in the act of texting him back, was that why he'd been as surprised as Mycroft about the mugger? He fit his fingers into the fingerprints.

Desperate for something else to focus on, he looked at the intravenous bags hanging on the poles. One was a salt solution but the other was blood. Two liters, that was one third of the blood in a human. They'd replaced it with four units of blood and two liters of crystalloid. Idly, he wondered about the dilution factor and if he would receive any more blood. He stopped his mind suddenly, dropping his head forward. He knew what he was doing to himself. He was entertaining his mind so he didn't have to completely focus on John. Being aware of the truth of oneself did not make it any easier to take. John was ill, desperately ill and there was nothing for Sherlock to do for him but be there for him.  
He moved the chair from the window to next to the bed and sat down in it. He'd just wait with John then.

 

Thirty minutes later the second nurse, not Clara, was back to take some blood and to check the wound. She smiled slightly at Sherlock but went about her chores with frank thoroughness. She took blood first, timed and dated it and placed it on the desk to take out with her. Drawing back the blankets, she pulled up John's hospital gown. The line of blood down the dressing had gotten wider and she drew on it with the pen kept on the table. She went through her tasks of checking the ventilator, the medications, the intravenous lines and finished by drawing the covers up again. And she left, with the tube of blood. 

That set up the routine of the next several hours. A nurse would come in, check the dressing, check the tubes, change out the blood bag or solution bag, retuck John in and leave. Finally, Sherlock rested his head on the bed next to John's right knee and closed his eyes.

The room was dark when he woke again. Molly was there, standing next to him, a hand on his arm. He drew back and the hand fell. His eyes moved to the monitors, nothing had changed, the green cardio line marched like the soldier that John was. Why was  
Molly there? "Why are you here?" His voice sound rough, even to him. "Why can't you wait for him to die? Go away, Molly, we don't need you." She moved quietly toward the door and for a moment he felt something akin to embarrassment but not enough to call her back. He put his head back down on the bed, this time bringing a hand up to touch John's hand where it lay in the bed. There had been no reaction from John.

 

The bright overheads were snapped on about three in the morning. Sherlock remained where he was but he listened to the conversation that went on between the two nurses. "Here's himself, sound asleep. The only family he has is the muckety muck in the government who is pulling strings so he can stay here."

"Shh, Clara, don't wake him. Doctor Watson is spiking a fever. Probably could use a suctioning." There was movement sounds and suction sounds. There was a pause where she listened to his lungs. "Better. But we've got to keep an eye on that. The last thing he needs is pneumonia."

"We'll start turning him after the next dressing check, move the secretions around in his chest." They left then, turning off the light.

Sherlock thought about how much information he'd learned from only listening. Clara was very much unhappy, he presumed at home and was not nice with it. Both nurses were good at their jobs, problem solving when something came up. He was glad that they were John's nurses.

Fifteen minutes later, he became aware that his left hand, the one on John's was warm and wet. He sat up abruptly and reached for the lamp switch on the bed. John hadn't moved, was still deeply unconscious but blood had seeped out, a lot of blood. He was bleeding from his intravenous sites as well and from his mouth a little. Sherlock hit the call bell for the nurse. Of course it was Clara who came in, all bluster, nearly shouting when she asked what was wrong.  
"Just because you are unhappy at home with a husband who is cheating on you doesn't give you the right to be nasty to John. Clara, was it? We have a problem here. I suspect DIC. Go and get the heparin, will you?"

Clara took one look at the pool of blood on the bed, at the blood from the intravenous and the intubation tube and she reached overhead and hit the blue button on the wall. Immediately alarms started going off.  
Sherlock went to wash his hand and retreated to his corner again. Watching as the medical staff came in, agreed with his diagnosis and gave John heparin. They retaped his lines and his tube and changed his dressing with a dry one. Sherlock saw the long incision with the bold staple line down the center of John's abdomen and he felt sick. After settling John into the now dry bed the staff left, leaving him alone with John again. For the first time, he addressed him, "Don't do that again, John." He hunched over in his chair, his hand loosely around John's wrist, fingers against the pulse that perfectly matched the machine's tones. "Don't do that again."

The checks became much more frequent as the night went on and on. Would dawn never come? No one addressed Sherlock personally, they treated him more like a piece of furniture that might bite. He was used to it. The two nurses discussed whether to call John's sister right in front of him. Perhaps he should have called Harry himself but then he would have to take out his phone and actually look at the messages he'd sent when he was impatient at the crime scene. The ones that he'd sent even while John was lying in his own blood.

Sherlock pressed a thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. No, wouldn't think about that, not now. He shivered once and wondered if they'd turned down the temperature in the room. It was so cold in the room now. John slept on.

 

"You look ghastly, Sherlock."

The words seemed to come out of nowhere and Sherlock looked up in surprise. His brother was there, holding two cups of tea. He'd sunk into reverie, holding the phones, staring at them. He'd wished for his violin at about five in the morning and instead just sat there, deep in thought about the messages that he still wasn't ready to look at. He'd sent the first of the messages at 1600 himself. Of course there had been no response, John had been with Mycroft. He rubbed at his forehead, surprised to see the sun dawning. "Go away, Mycroft."

"No, you have to come with me. It's almost shift change, time for John's bed bath and report off by the nurse."

"John had a bed bath this morning at 0330, there was bleeding. I'm busy."

"Come on, I brought tea. Nurse says you haven't left at all. Come, stretch your legs. We won't go far, just outside the room. I want to talk to you about the gunman."

Sherlock glanced down at John. His color was the same, the intravenous lines the same. They had finished his seventh unit of blood half an hour ago. There had been no further bleeding. He looked at the monitor. All was the same. He looked at his brother, who was holding out the cup of tea. "Is there sugar in it?"

"Of course." 

Sherlock picked up his coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on, slipping both phones into the pocket. "Maybe we can ask someone about the temperature in this room. It's freezing." He took the cup of tea from Mycroft and drank. He made a face, "Gah, how much sugar did you use?"

Mycroft had of course noticed that Sherlock made sure that everything was good before he would leave the room. He had had a good report from the night nurses about Sherlock's behavior and they both had told him that it was due to him that they had caught the DIC very early, early enough to treat with meds and more blood. Not that John was out of the woods and probably wouldn't be for a day or so. All Mycroft had was hope. He just had to keep Sherlock going that long. The sugar would be good for the shock that was setting in. The room was actually quite warm due to John's fragile state. 

The brothers stood just outside John's door and drank their tea. Mycroft noticed other signs of a sleepless night, the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor that was more pronounced than usual. Sherlock kept staring through the window. Normally, he would be peppering Mycroft with questions about the gunman. He began, "The junkie."

Sherlock just looked through the window into John's room, his brow creased. He murmured, "Hmm?"

Mycroft tried again, "The gunman, the one who shot John." Sherlock glanced at him and was waiting for him to continue when alarms began blaring from John's room. Out of nowhere several people showed up and entered the room. Sherlock whirled to face the window again and the window shade was abruptly pulled down. 

"What? No, I don't think so." He was barred from the room by an orderly. "No, no, let me through, he's my friend. He needs me." The alarms continued to blare. "You've got to let me in, he's my friend. I won't be in the way, I've been here all night!" 

There were raised voices coming from the room now and someone else ran in, pushing a cart with a defibrillator on it. Someone was counting, someone was offering names of medications. Still another person came out with vials of blood and started running down the hall. It was when yet another voice called for the all clear that Sherlock lost his patience and muscled his way past the orderly, who let out a surprised yelp when Sherlock's shoe ground on his foot. 

The room that met his eyes was vastly different than the one that he had left not six minutes earlier. The covers had been pulled down and were trailing off the bed. John had been disconnected from the ventilator and someone was hand bagging the ambu bag, more people were staring at the monitors, while another pulled out and readied the medications that were called out. One person was stepping back, with the debrillator paddles held out. Everyone looked at the monitor which showed a solid green line. Alarms squawked, someone said, "Continue compressions." And a person on the far side of the bed put their hands in the middle of John's chest and was doing compressions. John's gown was pulled down to his waist, his dressing was clean this time, with only a thin line of blood on it. The man doing the compression pushed hard and fast, moving John's entire body with every push. No one looked at Sherlock, save for the orderly who'd come in behind him. 

Sherlock retreated to the corner he'd claimed and watched what was happening, leaning heavily against the wall. It was almost too much to take in, the counting, the medications, the monitors that wouldn't stop their drone. He couldn't take his eyes off of the chest compressions. Who know that the chest had that much give in it? And when they used the defibrillator again, John jerked, his torso rising, his arms and legs left behind like a rag doll's. 

"Hold compressions." Everyone stopped. The man doing the chest compressions pressed two fingers to John's throat and counted to ten, and shook his head. The monitors still claxoned out their flatline. "Can anyone think of something we haven't tried? No? Time of death 0727. Thank you, everyone."

People began to file out of the room. Sherlock just stood in his corner shaking his head. His head wasn't the only part of him that was shaking. He wasn't sure he understood what was going on. Was John dead?

One of the nurses turned off the monitor and in the sudden silence Sherlock could hear the heavy rasping breaths that had to be coming from his own chest. He would move away from the wall but he wasn't sure that his legs could hold him.

Mycroft had watched his brother watch the tragedy unfolding before him from the doorway. He sighed. Poor Sherlock. He could see his brother's lips moving, like they had through the whole incident. If Sherlock had been anyone else other than Sherlock, he would've thought he was praying. 

The orderly whose foot Sherlock had stomped began cleaning up the room, picking up packages, disposing of needles that had been dropped heedlessly on the floor in the emergency. He jerked up the sheet and when it passed over John's face, Sherlock lost what little muscle control he had over his legs and abruptly sat on the floor. 

Mycroft entered then. "Go away," he told the orderly. "Come back in ten minutes. I'll get him out of here." The man glared at Sherlock as he left but he didn't notice. Mycroft went to stand next to his brother and when he got closer he could hear what Sherlock was saying. He was repeating over and over and over as he stared at the white sheeted figure in the bed. "But he's my friend."


End file.
